“You’re late, Baby Bayer!” O’Doul calls. “Change, already.”

“Sorry,” I say, preferring not to explain where I’ve been. “Let’s do this, boys!” I slap Drake on the back. “Who’s ready to skate until we puke?”

“You talk a good game,” my friend replies, pulling up his socks. “But I bet you’re really just planning the first big prank of the season.”

“Nah,” I say, tossing my T-shirt into my gym bag. “I’ve retired the whoopie cushion and the rubber chicken.” This will be the year that the hockey blogs know me for my stats, not my reputation as a party boy.

It’s time to settle down. Hell—it’s past time. “Where’s my jersey?” I ask, glancing around the room. It’s not at my station. And I feel an honest-to-God shiver, like the hockey gods are reminding me one more time that nobody owes me a seat in this room.

“Oh, uh,” Drake says, frowning. “Jimbo only made it half way around before something came up.” He points at a rolling laundry cart in the center of the room. “I found mine in there.”

“Thanks, dude.” I slap my upper body pads on and then cross to the cart. Sure enough, there’s my practice jersey right on top. BAYER it reads, number 70. “One better than 69,” I used to tell the ladies in the bars after games.

I reach for the jersey. But just as my fingers close around the fabric, a hand comes shooting up from beneath the other laundry in the cart and grabs me by the wrist.

I shriek like a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert.

The room erupts with howls of laughter.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I yell as Castro stands up in the cart, shedding a pile of jerseys. Then I clutch my chest, where my heart is beating wildly. “You will PAY, asshole!”

He doubles over laughing. “Anyone get it on video?”

“Oh ya,” says the rookie Wilson in his big Wisconsin accent. He’s clutching his phone and laughing. “That’ll be a classic. You jumped a yard, Baby Bayer. Shoulda gone out for basketball.”

“Assholes,” I grumble, lifting the damn jersey over my head. “You all think you’re so funny.” The whole room is still laughing, even Ivo, the Finnish kid who barely understands anything we say.

I stomp back to my gear and put on my hockey shorts.

“Oh, man,” Drake says, wiping his eyes. “What a way to start the season. How you gonna pay Castro back?”

As soon as I hear the question, my subconscious is making plans. I could steal that lucky peanut-butter sandwich he eats before every game. He might open it up and find a damp sponge in there instead. Or—since we live in the same building and share a laundry room—I could put a new purple T-shirt in his whites laundry and turn all his underwear lavender.

But wait. No.

Slowly I turn to Drake. “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to get him back. I’m done with jokes and pranks,” I tell him. Even if revenge does sound nice, because my heart rate is still elevated from Castro’s jump scare, my focus needs to be elsewhere.